


Exit Wounds

by entanglednow



Series: Wounds [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Forced to Watch, Gang Rape, Heavy Angst, Hell Is Awful, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rough Sex, Violence, forced to have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Crowley has to endure one last punishment from Hell, and they plan to expose a secret he's been keeping from Aziraphale for thousands of years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s), Crowley/Hastur (Good Omens)
Series: Wounds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604338
Comments: 64
Kudos: 460
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Exit Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Please take note of the tags on this one. This contains explicit rape/non-con.

Even with a black hood over his head, and most of his angelic powers bound, Aziraphale still knows the moment they enter Hell. 

The way the airless misery of it tries to catch at parts of himself like non-corporeal hands. The smell of it, a stinging damp that's both unbearably hot and frigidly cold at the same time, the reek of sulphur, hellfire, and ten million unwashed demons. It's becoming an unsettlingly familiar place of late. He doesn't know whether it's just him that they've taken, or whether they have Crowley here too. The first thing they'd done was slap cuffs on him, thick metal bands that fasten tight around his wrists. They're warm with the unholy sting of occult power, negating most of his own physical powers and preventing all miracles. They've already left lines of soreness on the skin, that he knows will be bright red if he's ever allowed to see them. 

Aziraphale's forced to stumble forward, in front of aggressively pushing hands, for what feels like a fair distance, forced to follow unspoken but still threatening commands, through several doorways and sharp turns, before he's stopped by the curl of fingers over his shoulder, and the black, smoke-befouled hood is dragged from his head. 

He's in a long, cavernous room with wide stone support pillars every twenty feet, the uneven stone floor is cracked, and ruined by oily black stains. It's barely lit, crowded at one end by a silent crush of blank-faced demons, who stare at him with a variety of cold, inhuman eyes. He manages to take in as much as he can, to spot the second, distant exit, before he's turned sharply, roughly enough that he almost stumbles, to face the stone pillars in the middle of the room.

Crowley is here too after all. There's no mistaking the soft, feathery curve of his striking hair, the almost insolent twist of mouth, even from the position Aziraphale's been forced to stop in, dragged in tight to the wall, under a sickly, humming light. Crowley's back is pressed to one of the large pillars, and he's been stripped completely, arms hauled over his head in thick manacles that wrap loosely around the column he's chained to. The position stretches him out in a way that's clearly designed to be uncomfortable, leaving the length of him almost painfully thin. He's all hollows, soft angles, and hard little rolls of bone, the sharply bare edges of his pale hips, and gently curving pubic mound are shocking in a way that Aziraphale has never seen, never been given permission to see.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to call out to him, feet already trying to take him forward, until a hand lands on the back of his neck and grips hard, holding him in place, while another presses hot and tight over his mouth. He certainly doesn't miss the glint of a black knife, the unsettling hum of it obviously occult between greasy, demonic fingers. He understands that he's supposed to keep quiet for now.

Hastur is a recognisable second figure, six feet in front of Crowley, his thin, tattered form in a grubby slouch of satisfaction, as if he'd been given everything he'd asked for.

"Isn't the cliche kidnapping getting a bit old," Crowley complains, voice all false bravado and amusement. There's a bruise across the side of his face, and blood on his teeth, and he's keeping Hastur in sight while his wrists twist and pull where they're hauled above him, testing the chains that hold him. There's a wary caution to him that's bordering on fear, but he's battered every hint of it out of his voice. Aziraphale had spent years trying to learn that trick from him. The one time he'd managed it he'd been in Hell too.

He doesn't seem surprised, or disturbed, by his nudity.

"You were supposed to leave us alone, what's it been, two weeks? Are you really that desperate for entertainment that you'd risk the anger of upper management?" 

Hastur doesn't seem concerned, which Crowley obviously likes as little as Aziraphale does. This is not the slouch of a demon who's disobeying the rules, who's expecting punishment for anything he does here.

"Oh, we are under orders to leave you alone. You're right about that." Hastur reaches into his stained pocket and retrieves a bronze coin, turns it and shows Crowley the front, and whatever's on it obviously surprises him, chains clanking as he shifts in them, but Aziraphale is at the wrong angle to make it out. "Once you leave here, I give you this and you're effectively untouchable. It's all sealed and ready to be signed, ready to be inked in as many hot flavours of blood and ichor as you please. Whatever you are, you're no longer our business." He turns the coin, then slips it back into his pocket, and Aziraphale doesn't miss how satisfied he looks at whatever shows on Crowley's face. 

The chains grate on the stone again so Crowley can turn his head, can pick out the shadowy mass of demons further into the room. Though Aziraphale doubts they are as shadowy to Crowley's eyes, he can probably make them out perfectly. Aziraphale can't see Crowley's expression from this position, but there's an angry stiffness to the way he's holding himself now. As if he's starting to have some idea what Hastur is planning, and he clearly doesn't like it.

"So, what the fuck am I doing here?" he demands.

"You're here because I managed to request one last punishment from the Dark Council. One last reprimand for a mission failed while in the service of Hell, while you were still one of ours. You miserable fucking traitor. For the fuck-up with the Antichrist I was given one full day to punish you. And since I couldn't destroy you utterly, I had to work out how to make you feel worthless, how to make sure I could leave a messy fucking wound in the rest of your eternity -" 

Crowley seems to decide he's had enough of Hastur's speech, because he leans forward in a rattle of chains, and spits blood in his face.

The Duke doesn't even wipe it away, he laughs in a way that sounds surprised, like Crowley is a misbehaving child who's done something especially entertaining. 

"So, you finally did grow a backbone, took you long enough, you worthless snake." He waves a hand, and Crowley's mouth is abruptly gagged, the thick leather shoved in between his sharp teeth, leaving his jaw uncomfortably wide. Aziraphale suspects, by the startled way he chokes air and thrashes, that there's something on the back of the gag, something pushed down his throat as well.

Hastur watches him fight against it for half a minute, until he sags with a quiet, angry noise. Then he watches him for a moment longer, seemingly enjoyed the mute fury of him. Before he nods and steps in closer, his ragged coat brushing Crowley's bare calves.

"Now, there's not a lot you can do to someone in one day, that's barely enough time to work up a good flow, get a good rhythm on the screaming." Hastur darts a hand out and catches Crowley's neck, drags him in close with one jerking rattle of the chains. "You've been through this too many times not to know how to sleep your way through a day or two of that. No, this last time had to be special. We had to get creative." He takes a second to make a rough noise through his teeth, he laughs like someone who's only just learned how, a grating mad pleasure to the sound. "Now I think you'd say I don't know how to do that, that I don't have - an imagination, and you'd probably be right. But you're not the only smart bastard in hell, Crawly." 

Hastur lifts a hand, almost lazily, and gestures at the demon holding Aziraphale.

"Why don't you bring our audience out, Galdon."

The black knife is dug pointedly into the material of his jacket, and Aziraphale is forcibly marched forward, until he enters Crowley's line of sight.

"We thought we'd bring your friend for some...moral support," Hastur says with a grin.

Crowley's eyes widen, and Aziraphale can't tell whether it's shock or horror, or some tangled mix of both, before he lunges in the chains, pulled up short by their length, hands fisting where they're pulled over his head. He bites down on the gag in a strangled flurry of furious noises, one leg swinging out in an arc that Hastur doesn't even step out of the way of. He lets it hit him, and then laughs madly, shakes his head.

"Oh, don't fret, petal, we're not going to hurt him. We're not allowed to hurt _him_. He's just here to watch while we hurt you." He steps close, one pale hand shoved into Crowley's hair, fisting tight in the dark red strands so he can forcibly tilt his head in Aziraphale's direction, pressing it against the stone until tiny flecks of grit pepper his cheek. "We're going to show him all of the many things you know how to do. All the ways you've made yourself useful." 

Crowley thrashes when Hastur digs both hands under his knees and lifts him, his back scraping harshly on the rough surface as he's pushed up it. His legs are forced open in one brutal movement, pinned that way, the naked spread of his cunt on obscene display. Hastur's intention is immediately, sickeningly obvious.

"No," Aziraphale says, horrified and furious. He drives an elbow back hard, and the demon holding him gives a pained grunt, hold loosening for a second as Aziraphale almost drags him to his knees trying to claw his way out of his grip. The unholy knife tilts upwards, the sharp point dragging through three layers of fabric, to leave a rent in his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, digging painfully into skin. "No. Let go of me. You can't - don't you dare do this."

Hastur drops a hand to his dirty, ragged trousers, unbuttoning them in hasty pulls, before shoving them down at the front and working his lower body between Crowley's legs. He has the fingers of one hand dug into the meat of a thigh, the other rising to close tightly on Crowley's throat, pinning his struggling body still, while he shifts to position himself against Crowley's exposed sex, with a sound of impatient hunger. Then he forces his cock into Crowley's body, in one savage thrust. Crowley makes an angry, pained noise of protest, thighs clenching, teeth snapping into the leather of the gag.

Aziraphale stiffens in shock, at the appalling, brutal nature of the act. He cannot let this happen - and he's wrenching at the hands holding him again, arms straining in their cuffs, until the demon holding him makes a warning noise and tightens his grip.

"Satan, he's always so fucking tight to start with." Hastur laughs wetly, and starts moving, drawing back and then shoving roughly inside him again, clearly enjoying the way Crowley tries to twist out of his grip, the way he tenses and pulls in his chains, makes angry noises of disgusted refusal behind the gag. 

Aziraphale's whole body is cold, shaking in impotent, anguished fury, as he watches the demon he loves be violated, while he does nothing.

"Does the angel look like he wants to kill me yet?" Hastur asks lazily. He tangles a hand in Crowley's hair and cruelly jerks his head back, so he can see his expression, the way he's grunting through the gag every time Hastur buries himself. "I bet he does."

He works into Crowley in quick, eager thrusts, digging filthy nails into his skin and spreading his thighs wide, giving Aziraphale a horrifyingly clear view of his pale cock moving roughly in Crowley's cunt.

"Enjoying the view, angel? He always has had a pretty cunt. Has he shown it to you yet? Don't worry, you're going to be seeing plenty of it. We're going to make a pretty, sloppy mess of it for you." 

The thought seems to delight Hastur, because his pace increases, becomes something deep and bruising, before he grinds in tightly and stills, fingers gone to claws on Crowley's thigh. He groans, deep and filthy, as he comes inside him, while Crowley twists his head to the side, and garbles furious disgust. Once he's finished, Hastur pulls out, leaving Crowley's legs to fall awkwardly, chains jerking him to a painful stop, Hastur rights his clothing while Crowley gets his feet under him, noises streaming through the gag in one long, vicious snarl of sound.

"Always a pleasure, Crowley," Hastur says with a laugh. "Right, who wants to fuck him next?"

The second demon who steps up gets kicked in the thigh, staggers to one knee, and Crowley gets a smack round the face for his trouble, lurching sideways as far as the chains will allow, and slamming awkwardly against the stone, before he's dragged back round, legs pushed open again, to expose his stretched-open labia, and Hastur's semen trailing his long, narrow thighs. There's a brief struggle, and a grating clank of chains, but Crowley has nowhere to go, and the demon positions himself between his legs with a hand, and then pushes his cock into him with a groan. He draws back immediately and then starts thrusting, the pace quick and greedy, and Crowley strangles out a garbled, miserable protest.

Someone will stop this, Aziraphale tells himself, desperately. Someone will stop this from happening. They were _promised_ , they were promised that they would be free, that no one would come for them. They had assurances from the highest authority.

Aziraphale can see the way long-nailed fingers dig cruelly into Crowley's thighs, hold them open obscenely wide, so every slick thrust is visible. He can't watch this, he can't be expected to watch this. But he realises that's exactly what he's expected to do. That's the whole point, it's why they brought him here.

Crowley hasn't looked at him since it started, mouth working stiffly behind the gag, as the demon enjoying his body without his consent makes loud, disgusting noises of pleasure. Noises that leave Aziraphale clenching his hands into fists, unholy cuffs burning as the tendons of his wrists strain against them. He watches the demon shove brutally and shakily between Crowley's legs before he stills, moaning satisfaction.

"Stop it," Aziraphale says desperately. "Please stop."

Hastur makes a gesture, and another demon takes their place between Crowley's awkwardly spread legs, fingers already tugging open their belt.

"Stop it," Aziraphale says, louder, insides churning in furious horror, utterly helpless to stop this from happening. Because no one is coming, no one is going to save them. "You can't do this."

"Oh, don't look so horrified, angel," Hastur says roughly. "If you think Crowley hasn't been through this many times before, then you're more naive than you look. You get strung up for every black mark you get, for every late or lost report. Those reprimands, and failures, and fuck-ups, they're paid for in blood and in flesh down here. It's just the way things are. Did he not tell you that?"

_Hell doesn't send rude notes._

Aziraphale is suddenly forced to review every time Crowley had complained, miserably, scathingly about getting called back to Hell. About answering for a failed temptation, a shoddily written report, a mission that had gone wonky unexpectedly. Or a mission Aziraphale had successfully thwarted. Was this really what he'd been going back to? 

Aziraphale had always been so afraid of Gabriel's disappointment, of the way he was constantly judging him poorly for his work, for his frivolous miracles, for his need to care for every soul that needed him. Suggesting that he was being distracted by human inventions and human indulgences, his pointed looks that always made him feel terrible shame. Sandalphon's stern judgment, Michael's distant apathy, Uriel's quiet dismissal. Aziraphale was in Heaven, feeling small and useless, and forgotten, and thinking it was the worst thing in the world.

While Crowley was in Hell, being raped and tortured.

He remembers, remembers suddenly and with awful clarity, messing up a temptation in 1716, a noblemen who was supposed to gamble away his fortune, Aziraphale had flubbed the whole thing terribly, ended up pledging the money to build a hospital instead. He remembers meeting Crowley afterwards, the way he'd been so quiet and so calm in his dark glasses, Aziraphale had expected disappointment, or censure, a harsh judgement on his terrible failure. _Got me in trouble there, angel,_ Crowley had said, but then he'd smiled and commiserated with Aziraphale over his mistakes. He'd even bought him wine, poured it for him, expression fond over the bottle.

Aziraphale hadn't known.

God forgive him, he hadn't known.

He's going to be sick.

Another demon moves up to replace the third, catches Crowley's twisting, thrashing waist with a laugh, and digs his fingers in hard enough to make him hiss behind the gag. He pushes one leg up against the stone column, leaves the other dangling as he shoves his trousers down, drawing his cock out with a fist, and butting the large, swollen head against Crowley's exposed hole, before working the solid length of himself inside him.

Crowley makes a grating noise of pain, tries to pull himself away, which makes the demon laugh again, as if it's a weakness he's won from him, an opportunity to put him in his place. Crowley knows it as well, because he strangles out something through the gag that makes the demon snap his teeth, and fuck into him harder.

Aziraphale tenses in mute, protesting misery, with the need to _do something_ , and it isn't until the demon behind him tightens his grip hard enough to hurt that he realises he'd been straining forward.

"You're just supposed to watch, no one gets hurt today if you watch," the demon says flatly.

Which makes no sense at all, because Aziraphale already feels like parts of him are slowly being cored open, he can't just watch this, he can't be expected to watch Crowley violated and do _nothing_. 

But that's exactly what he does, what he's forced to do. He watches a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh demon grasp Crowley's naked body, touch him in ways he doesn't want, ways he struggles and pulls against. He watches them force themselves inside him, as if he's something they can _use_ , something they can violate and abuse, without a single care for his comfort or consent. It's vile and unbearable and Aziraphale's throat feels raw, as if he's been holding a scream and hadn't even noticed.

Or something worse, something that will eat him alive if he lets it loose.

Crowley's stopped fighting them by the time the ninth demon moves between his thighs, hands fisted white on the chains that hold him up, he's stopped trying to pull his legs out of their grip now too, they just hang limply, in hands or claws, swaying with every rough thrust into his body. He's silent and glaring now, skin slick with sweat, bloody teeth clenched around the gag, his pale, narrow chest heaving in air he doesn't need.

The demon inside him slips his flushed, glistening cock free just before he comes, pinning Crowley's thighs wide, semen pulsing wetly across the bruised, angry redness of his vulva. Before the tenth shoves him aside and pushes straight in through the mess. 

The slick, wet sound of the demons finding their own pleasure in Crowley's unwilling body is obvious and obscene in the quiet of the room. The messy spill of come from his open cunt every time a demon slides free of him, leaves Aziraphale cold with disgust and frustrated anger. At the fact he's being forced to watch this, that Crowley knows he's watching, that Aziraphale can see everything happening to him, every brutal, horrific, shameful moment of this. Not that Aziraphale doesn't try to stop, to turn away from it, but the demon holding him has clearly been given orders that he's supposed to be an audience, tugging painfully at his hair every time he tries to turn his head.

Though he still tries.

"It's no fun if you don't watch," Hastur says, from where he's leant against the wall, every inch of him arrogance and amusement. As if this is exactly what he'd wanted.

"You're all monsters," Aziraphale says simply.

Hastur nods agreement.

"Course we are, we're demons." He jerks his head towards Crowley, where he's pinned by the throat against the stone, as another demon works roughly between his legs. "Him too, and if you think otherwise you really are more naive than you look. The things he's done for Hell. The things he's done for us. You honestly think he's told you half of them. They'd give you fucking nightmares, angel."

The brute inside Crowley finishes with a long, hissing groan and then pulls out. He leaves Crowley's legs spread when he moves back, leaves the reddened, abused stretch of his sex fully on display. The demon watches his come spill out of it in obvious satisfaction, before he lets his legs drop. Crowley sways for a second in the chains, before shakily re-finding his feet with a wobble, teeth gnawing at the wet, twisted material of the gag.

"Right, who's next?"

A bulky demon with wet, leathery skin moves towards the column, pushes his trousers down at the front to reveal the sickeningly large, strangely ridged length of his cock. Crowley's sweaty, slick thighs give a jolt of refusal when they're grabbed, but the demon just grips them tighter in his wide hands, jerks them open until he can settle the head of his cock against the mess of Crowley's cunt, before slowly forcing it in with a noise of satisfied pleasure. 

He holds Crowley open and starts a brutal, punishing pace, that makes Crowley choke a hard, wounded noise, legs trying to pull up, mouth twisting in obvious pain as he bites into the gag and takes it. 

Aziraphale jerks sharply in his guard's hold, and this time it's Hastur who leans in, one hand flat on his chest, the stench of him like dead things.

"Careful, angel," he says quietly. "I'd wager Crowley would be a lot less well-behaved if we had to stick an unholy knife in you to keep you still. Might have to break a few bones, dislocate a few joints, to get him to stop struggling. You don't want that, do you?"

Aziraphale's angry, helpless nausea has twisted and soured inside him, now he simply feels cold, body trembling as if it's no longer sure if it's supposed to be fighting or surrendering, and he hates the betrayal of it. Because he should be fighting this, he should be fighting every second of it. But instead he just watches, under the grip of hands, and the promise of an end to it all, if he just does as he's told. He watches the bulky demon pull free, watches Crowley bleed from it. Before he's replaced by another, and Crowley's pinned by new hands, spread open and violated again. There are more hunched, awful shapes that move in to replace the ones who leave, some with obscene, inhuman genitals, all of them vile and unbearably cruel. Grunting their pleasure like animals.

"Why are you making me watch this?" Aziraphale says thickly, when he can't be silent any longer. It sounds like a plea and he hates that too. He wasn't made for this, he wasn't made to _watch_ and do nothing, and his entire body protests the agony of it.

Hastur blinks calmly at him, and Aziraphale knows he's enjoying this. Knows his reaction is part of the reason for that. 

"Because I'm pretty sure he wants you to fuck him, and this little display will show you exactly what you're getting, exactly what sort of treatment he expects from you, exactly how many people have had him before you. How many demons have used him like he deserves -"

Crowley makes a choked, angry noise through the gag, twisting violently, chains dragging on stone, and the grey-skinned demon currently moving in him slaps him hard across the face, much to his hissing outrage. There's a struggle, brief and unpleasant, and Crowley's punished for it with a series of brutal, painful thrusts.

Hastur grinds his teeth at the interruption, before he continues. "To be perfectly honest with you, half the time he even gets off on it, sometimes he even wants it. We're demons, it happens to all of us."

"He's nothing like you," Aziraphale says tightly, disgusted by the comparison, especially from him. Because he's the reason this is happening. "You know nothing about him." 

Hastur doesn't protest, doesn't try and convince him otherwise. He just smiles, dirty and acidic, as if he's looking forward to Aziraphale being disappointed.

The demon raping Crowley finishes noisily, before pulling out and tucking himself away. He shoots an annoyed look at his other hand, the one he'd been using to grasp Crowley's slick, inner thigh, and with an expression of amusement he lifts it. Crowley tries to jerk his head away, disgusted, but the demon simply digs the fingers of his other hand into Crowley's jaw, holds him still, and then cleans his dirty hand off in Crowley's hair, before stepping away. 

Hastur holds a hand up. The shape already moving from the crowd of demons to the pillar stills, and then shrinks back into the crowd with a grating hiss of disappointment. Crowley's left to stand where he is, pained and sweating, filthy and exhausted in his chains, wobbling unsteadily on his feet. There are dark bruises already forming on his thighs, pelvis and waist. And Aziraphale knows him well enough to recognise his expression, it's the flatness of frustrated anger, with hot curls of miserable shame.

Hastur pushes himself away from the wall. "Right, I think it's time for a little audience participation," he decides.

It takes Aziraphale a moment to realise that Hastur means him, and he dearly hopes he looks as disgusted as he feels.

"How about we make it interesting." Hastur turns to face Aziraphale, then stretches a hand back to where Crowley has gone suddenly, horribly still. "The moment you fuck him it all ends," he says bluntly.

Aziraphale clenches his teeth so hard he feels one of them crack. He has never wanted to strike someone so much in his life, and he's afraid that if he raises his hand he might never stop.

"I will do no such thing," he says tightly, and it's a hiss of furious air.

Hastur's black eyes crinkle at the edges. "Ah, now, that is a shame, since we have another -" He makes a show of checking the clock on the wall, which isn't moving, which probably hasn't moved for years. "Twenty two hours, give or take, to kill. I'd wager we could get through quite a few demons in twenty two hours, couple of hundred I bet. If you're lucky maybe even the time would run out before your boyfriend broke. What do you say, angel?"

"You can't -" He has no air left to talk with, and has to force some inside his chest. "That's monstrous."

"We're in Hell," Hastur reminds him. "This isn't even cruelty yet. This is for fun."

"You expect me to -" He can't finish it, can't make himself say it, the idea of it is utterly abhorrent.

"Fuck him, yes, you either fuck him, or I bring in half the hordes of Hell until seven o'clock tomorrow, and they can all do it for you." There's a slick, dirty grin to go with the words. "And they'd enjoy it, angel. They'd fucking jump at the chance."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "No, you can't, that's barbaric." His protest means nothing though, does it? There's no threat that Hastur wouldn't carry out. No amount of begging from Aziraphale will change that, they would likely consider it a victory, would revel in his misery. 

"This is Hell, we specialise in barbaric," Hastur says easily, as if Aziraphale should have already known that. "And it's not like he hasn't done it before, though I remember he didn't enjoy it much. Had to use a bit of occult power to tighten him up again every so often, they left every hole he had fucking _gaping_."

The cuffs burn under Aziraphale's twisting, instinctive movement, a stripe of hot pain that reminds him he's bound almost as well as Crowley. Though the look he turns on Hastur has the demon making a noise that's almost impressed.

"So, yes, go over there and fuck him, and then afterwards we'll unchain him, sign the paperwork, let you both go. Not think about either of you ever again. Or you can stand here for the next twenty two hours and watch your boyfriend spread his legs and bend over for every fucking demon who wants a go in him."

Aziraphale's whole being recoils in horror from the idea of it. He's still shaking his head, helplessly, as if he can make it a lie through sheer force of will.

"There's a bit of free will for you," Hastur adds. "Heard you like that. You get to _choose_."

Aziraphale is too horrified to speak for a moment. To choose? Between watching the brutal, repeated gang rape of the demon he loves, or to rape him himself. That's no choice at all. He can't imagine anything more horrible, anything crueller. 

"I can't," he says simply. It's impossible, it's unbearable, he _couldn't_.

Hastur nods, turns to survey the rest of the room. "Right, well then, we'll have to move the chain to the middle of the ceiling. We're going to want him free-standing for this, we'll never get this done unless we can fuck both holes at the same time. Better put him on his knees too, let him choke on a few dozen cocks and we might make it to five hundred. Someone get the angel a chair, he looks a bit unsteady on his feet."

Aziraphale can't breathe, can't speak for fear he'll be sick, or start screaming and never stop. The demon holding him tightens his arms around him, as if he can feel the vibration that's trying to shake him apart.

They can't stay here. He needs to take Crowley out of here, he needs to take them home, he needs -

"Wait, wait, don't -" He stops, makes a helpless, desperate noise when Hastur doesn't even pretend to look surprised. He knows perfectly well how to hurt people. "Don't, I'll do it."

The demon looks so horribly satisfied that for a second, Aziraphale, who has never wished anyone to suffer in the entirety of his existence, can't help but finally understand how someone could. How someone could need it more than air. Could want to watch it happen and not feel a moment of regret.

"Well then, what are you waiting for?" Hastur holds an arm out, to where Crowley is still slumped, breathing hard, against the pillar.

The demon holding Aziraphale lets him go, and he manages somehow not to fall, not to turn around and - but, no, he's not important. There is only one important person in this room, and Aziraphale has already failed at protecting him.

No one is coming to save them.

Crowley's not far away, twenty feet at most - and Aziraphale finds he can't recall a single step of it. There's just the moment where he isn't touching him - and then suddenly he is, fingers carefully pressed to his hot, damp waist. His friend is too warm, skin burning, Crowley is never this warm, and he doesn't know if it's the fact that they're in Hell, or something they've done to him, something in the manacles that does the same thing to his powers as the cuffs do to Aziraphale's. His chest expands on every breath, and there's an awkwardly garbled word through the gag. Aziraphale knows it's his name.

He honestly can't tell if that makes it easier to breathe, or harder.

Crowley's eyes are yellow-gold from corner to corner, and they fix on him with a tired sort of resignation, then hold there, as if he can't quite make himself look away.

"Crowley."

Aziraphale's hands slide down to Crowley's hips, and Crowley makes an angry, protesting noise, tries to pull his shaking legs together. Aziraphale stops touching him instantly, nausea rolling through him. Because if Crowley refuses, if Crowley chooses not to let him do this then Aziraphale will not make the choice for him.

"Crowley, I won't, I won't if you say no. But I can't watch them - " _Please don't make me watch them._ "Would this be worse - worse than that?" He stops, swallows, he feels cold and wrung-out and _horrified_ at what he's doing. He knows enough about words, enough about language to understand how despicable this is. How coercive it is, using Crowley's feelings against him, even if he's half certain that the protest is for him, is because Crowley doesn't want to make him do this, doesn't want to be the thing they use to hurt Aziraphale. Which is madness, because nothing could hurt either of them more than this. "I want to take us home, but I will stop if you tell me to," Aziraphale finishes instead. He doesn't want to watch. He can't watch this, not what they're planning, not for hours. He thinks it might kill him. But doing this to Crowley without whatever shaky consent he can give, that will destroy him.

Crowley breathes out, slowly, teeth working through the soaking gag, and then his legs relax and ease open again. He makes a sound, the mangled edge of a word that Aziraphale can't make out, and then gives a jerky, miserable nod.

Better and worse are concepts that have lost all meaning here. But it's something.

Crowley's genitals are hot and swollen, chafed a deep red and obviously painful. There are long streaks and smears of blood on his inner thighs, and the puffy, torn edges of his cunt. He's sloppy wet under Aziraphale's tentative touch, his fingers instantly coated with the messy spill of thick, demonic semen that's leaking from him. 

But, of course, Aziraphale can't heal him. The cuffs he's wearing prevent it.

Crowley huffs out a breath at the gentle press of fingers, the first time Aziraphale has ever touched him intimately, and he can't help the soft apology that falls from his mouth, instinctively. Because it feels so awful, so unbearably awful for this to be the first time. No matter how careful Aziraphale is, he knows it's going to hurt. He knows he's going to hurt Crowley if he does this, and the thought is devastating in its inevitability.

There's a garbled noise behind the leather, careful mouth movements that try and make the words clear. He thinks Crowley just told him that it's alright.

Which somehow makes it so much worse.

He lays his hands on Crowley's narrow waist, the furthest the cuffs will stretch apart, and he's never felt him so naked before, strangely thin and fragile under his hands. His skin is still so very hot, damp with sweat and fluids, and Aziraphale doesn't know if this helps, if Crowley wants him to touch, or if it would be easier if he didn't, if he touched him as little as possible.

There's a gentle click of chains, as Crowley carefully shifts position, to make it easier for him, which is such a sickening, awful thought that it leaves him sweating coldly and wondering if he can really do this. If he's capable of something like this.

"Come on, angel," Hastur barks, from far too close. "I know we can't die of old age, but I wasn't expecting to test the concept."

Crowley snarls something over Aziraphale's shoulder, hopelessly mangled, though some of it is definitely a curse, before his head tips back, eyes sliding away from Aziraphale's searching ones. He seems unwilling to look at Aziraphale for this, which is somehow devastating.

Aziraphale thinks drawing this out will just be cruel, will be harder on both of them. Crowley is always one to get terrible things over with, once they've proven themselves inevitable. To accept them, to live through them and not show how much they hurt you. Isn't it always Aziraphale who dawdles, who puts things off, refuses to acknowledge them, frets over the consequences, over what he could have done differently? The least he can do for Crowley is give him this the way he would want.

He lifts numb hands to his trousers, unbuttons them, and he doesn't miss the sharp, broken noise that Crowley makes, quietly furious, and utterly miserable. Which is so painful Aziraphale chooses not to acknowledge it, to give Crowley that much.

He's had to force his body erect - and because the alternative was unthinkable, his body has complied with his desperate request.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says helplessly, and carefully eases Crowley's thighs apart with shaking hands, feels them tense and then relax under his fingers. He holds them open, while he works himself between, sick with the knowledge that Crowley doesn't want this, that he doesn't have a choice. "I'm so very sorry."

He positions himself as carefully as he can, nudges the head of his cock gently inside. Crowley is so open, and so wet, that Aziraphale slides into him easily. Through the slick mess of demonic fluids that fill him, still warm from his body, spilling out around the push of Aziraphale's cock in a way that he can't help but be disgusted by, though he refuses for a second to let that expression cross his face, too afraid that Crowley won't understand why. Aziraphale is as careful as he can be, braced for a wince, or a flinch, a movement of some sort to tell him that it hurts, to tell him to wait, to slow down, to stop. But Crowley doesn't react, he lets Aziraphale sink all the way into him. There's nothing but the brief tense and shift of his legs, the curl of his fingers over his head. Aziraphale watches Crowley's throat roll in a swallow, over and over.

He refuses to call this intimacy, it isn't, it's something far more violent and forced, something stolen from both of them before they'd had a chance to dust it off and get a good look at it in the light. 

"I don't want to hurt you," Aziraphale murmurs. "Please tell me if I - if I -" But he already has, he knows he already has.

The same awkward choke of words around the gag, and it's much clearer now, 'it's alright.'

Aziraphale thinks he may be crying, he's not entirely sure. Crowley stops looking at him entirely, eyes fixed on something over his head, the white swallowed by deep, hot orange. Aziraphale slides backwards and sinks in again, an awkward press that rocks Crowley against the stone, because Aziraphale refuses to take any more from him, refuses to lay hands on him and hold him down. 

There's still not the faintest flicker of pain, and Aziraphale understands that there won't be, that Crowley refuses to let Aziraphale see this hurt him. 

He's as gentle as he can possibly be with Crowley's brutalised body, but the vile, wet sound of his cock moving in him is still horrific. He tries not to acknowledge how it feels, doesn't want to feel it, not like this, never like this. He tries to hold on to that shaky edge of numbness, to stop himself falling apart.

"Never seen an angel fuck anything before," a harsh voice says, all surprised interest and amusement. Which provokes laughter and more comments, each more perverse and degrading than the last, and Aziraphale finds he can't shut them out, can't ignore them. They make everything so much worse. 

Crowley makes a noise again, tips his head forward, trying to bite the leather out of the way, there's a harsh, choking sound, then a frustrated noise, as if he's trying to talk but can't. Aziraphale tucks himself in closer, draws their bodies together in slow, careful movements. 

"Crowley," he says quietly. He wants it to be reassurance, wants it to be something, but there are no words he could add afterwards, nothing that would make this better. 

Crowley makes a small, cracked noise behind the gag. It takes Aziraphale a moment, and a series of awkward, guilty thrusts before he realises that the slow tense and shiver of Crowley's limbs isn't a reaction to the horrific circumstances, or pain. It's a purely physical reaction. Crowley has his eyes shut now, mouth clamped down hard on the gag, and he's making soft, breathless noises through his nose.

He's aroused, Aziraphale realises all at once, somehow, from the careful, steady pushes that are barely quick enough to stimulate himself. Aziraphale doesn't know whether that makes it better or worse, that Crowley is getting something out of this, that he can feel anything good in the devastating horror that this is - Aziraphale doesn't know if that's a reaction to his own care, or self-defence, or something more innate, something in his Fallen nature - and then he realises that he's doing Crowley a far greater, crueller disservice thinking that, and forces himself to stop.

I love you, he thinks instead. And I will never let you be ashamed for a single thing that you are.

He presses him tightly to the pillar, hopes desperately that no one can see the slow rocking of Crowley's hips, the rhythmic clench of his thighs, that no one can hear the strangled, wet chokes of air that escape around the gag.

Aziraphale's own orgasm is a peak he has to reach before they can leave, before all this can end. A line he will drag himself towards if necessary, against his body's will, and to his mind's grief-stricken horror. In the end it's a sharp twinge of sensation, a brief, grubby pleasure that leaves him pressing in on a shaken, guilty breath, and it instantly leaves him feeling miserable and unworthy. His hoarse, murmured apology is just Crowley's name again.

Crowley's whole body clenches, abused sex tightening around Aziraphale's cock in one long, wet squeeze, as the demon shudders in pleasure, the chains clanking sharply as his hands tangle in them, he moans through the gag, teeth digging deep into the leather.

"Told you he got off on it," Hastur says, all amusement and mockery, as Crowley whimpers his way through orgasm.

Aziraphale can't help the little ache of misery, that so many others were here to watch Crowley like this, that their first time together was rape in all but name. That Crowley suddenly looks breathless and horrified and utterly ashamed, when he briefly meets Aziraphale's eyes.

Crowley's thighs are still trembling when Aziraphale carefully pulls out of him, from where he's been used so cruelly, beginning to very end. Crowley has his head turned to the side now, eyes closed, humiliated in a way he hadn't been for anyone else's touch. In a way he hadn't been for any of the others.

Aziraphale feels nauseous again, and he thinks that feeling may never leave him now. He thinks he deserves it. 

"I did what you wanted, let him down," he says flatly, pushing himself back into his trousers with cold hands. There's blood, there's blood and he's responsible for it, for the intimate violation that caused it. He's shaking, he's shaking wildly and obviously, and he can't seem to stop it.

Hastur watches him for a long moment, as if he's waiting for something to happen, waiting to see something. He grunts disappointment when he doesn't seem to find it. He makes a sharp gesture and the manacles unlock. Crowley takes his own weight again, unsteady on his feet for a moment, hissing in pain, knees almost buckling, before he snaps his fingers sharply - and he's dressed again, coat collar pulled up, glasses firmly back in place. Though his hair is still a mess, throat shining with sweat, and the bruises and the red marks that the gag left are still stark on his face. He's just clothed himself, as if he didn't have the energy for anything else. Aziraphale can't tell where he's looking, but it's definitely not at him.

Crowley works his jaw for a moment, then he raises a hand again, gives a quick half-click of fingers in Hastur's direction, a 'hurry up' gesture that Aziraphale doesn't understand.

Hastur doesn't even look surprised, he simply holds up a grubby clipboard.

"Final punishment administered, please sign your exit paperwork and then fuck off," he says.

Crowley steps close, he doesn't try and attack anyone, doesn't seek revenge for any of it. He treats all of this as if it's perfectly, horrifyingly normal, and Aziraphale's entire chest cavity feels too small, feels full of sharp edges and rage. He's so devastated by the implication, by how many things it tells him about their long, one-sided history, and he's not sure he can bear it. Crowley reaches forward, gives a scrawled infernal signature, and then a pointed look towards Aziraphale, though Crowley still doesn't meet his eyes. Hastur nods and the demon with the unholy knife unlocks his cuffs.

Aziraphale seriously considers physical violence, for the first time in a very long time. He wants it with a hot desperation that almost feels like madness. He could even argue that it wasn't unprovoked.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, and his voice is an awkward, scraping croak, barely there. 

He knows exactly what Aziraphale was thinking, and something in that lets him settle, lets him catch at the torn threads of his self-control, calmed in some way that feels painful now, after everything that's happened. Because he doesn't deserve it. Aziraphale wants to go to him, wants to touch him, wants to promise that nothing like this will _ever_ happen to him again. He wants it so badly it chokes him. But Crowley is a thin line of tension, one hand forced into his pocket, an air of nonchalance laid on him so heavily it might crush him entirely.

He won't look at Aziraphale.

Hastur flicks him the coin, which Crowley catches without looking at it, and then shoves in his pocket.

Aziraphale follows him to the lift, steps inside with him, and they both leave the stench of Hell behind.


End file.
